


keep me going strong

by elegantstupidity



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, F/M, Future Fic, Getting Together, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: Some habits are harder to break than others. Mike finds that out the hard way.





	keep me going strong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lenore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/gifts).



Mike wouldn’t exactly say he was a superstitious guy.

Sure, he had his rituals. He liked having a wad of gum to work on as he waited for a pitcher to come set. He’d tighten the straps on his left batting glove, touch the tip of his bat to the front corner of the plate.

None of that was superstition, though. He didn’t believe that any of it would guarantee him a hit, or he’d succumb to a case of the yips if he missed some all-important step in the process.

Ginny, however, had other ideas.

“Just admit it, old man,” she sighed, exasperated.

Since Ginny was annoyed with him—for reasons as varying as his inability to let an opportunity to school her on baseball history pass by to his deep and abiding hatred of the DH—about 30% of the time, it hardly even bothered him anymore.

“Not a chance, Baker.” He rolled his eyes and frowned at her for good measure, but Ginny didn’t give up her campaign.

“C’mon.” She turned to him, drawing one long leg up onto her airplane seat so she could rest her chin on her raised knee. It meant she had to look up at him, her dark eyes mostly hidden by the ridiculous, lush fringe of her eyelashes, but that was probably the kind of thing that Mike wasn’t meant to be noticing about his pitcher. Then again, pretty much every time he looked at Ginny, he noticed things he probably shouldn’t. “You’re just like every other baseball player alive. You believed in the Curse of the Bambino. You only wear eyeblack at AT&T. You refuse to break in new cleats on the road, and always make sure there are four extra sticks of gum in your back pocket before a game starts. You’re superstitious as hell.”

Mike crossed his arms over his chest. He swore these planes were getting smaller because the seats were so close together, there was nowhere for his elbow to go but right against Ginny’s shin.

She didn’t so much as twitch. 

And that was the thing, wasn’t it?

For all that Mike was pretty goddamn sure that between him and Ginny, he wasn’t the only one who noticed things he shouldn’t, but he felt like the only one who kept getting tripped up by it.

Still, he wasn’t going to be the asshole who was completely incapable of respecting her wishes by dragging it all out into the open again. Ginny’d been plenty clear when she’d told him last September that they weren’t talking about any of this as long as they were still teammates. From the look of things, that was going to be a good, long while yet.

So, Mike tucked his elbows in closer to his sides and considered an appropriate response.

He eventually settled on: “First, you and I both know that I’m one of a kind. The world couldn’t handle another Mike Lawson.”

“Couldn’t handle another Mike Lawson ego, that’s for sure,” she muttered. There was a dimple tucked away in her cheek, though, a sure sign she was biting down on a grin. Her eyes were lit up, and it seemed like she was going to burst into that ridiculous, braying laugh of hers at any second.

It was enough to make Mike’s entire brain go haywire. Still, he managed, only sounding a little off, and maybe that was just the pressure getting to his ears, to continue, “Second, those aren’t superstitions, they’re just habits.”

Ginny’s nose scrunched, and Mike had to ball his hands up into fists to resist the urge to reach out and smooth the wrinkles away.

“Is there really a difference?”

“‘Course there is,” he replied. When it became clear that Ginny wanted a better answer than that, Mike rubbed a hand over his face, trying to come up with one. “A habit’s just muscle memory. I do it because I have for as long as I can remember, not because I think everything will go to hell if I don’t.”

Naturally, his pitcher remained unconvinced. She sniffed and turned back to face front. Her knee, however, leaned over the armrest to settle lightly against Mike’s arm. While he was busy trying to figure out what she could possibly mean by this, Ginny was opening her mouth to speak.

“Well, I bet you can’t go a week without them.”

Mike scoffed, but Ginny looked utterly serious, and he knew exactly what she was capable of when she put her mind to it. Still, it wasn’t as if he was ever one to back down from a challenge. That was half of why he hadn’t pulled back from Ginny last season after her edict. (The other half was because the thought of spending less time with her for the sake of his own stupid heart was too awful to even contemplate.

So, he grinned, the kind of smile that’d been known to make more than a few women swoon—he was no saint, okay?—and said, “Oh, you’re so on, rookie.”

She just grinned right back. “For the usual?”

There was something off about the studied innocence on her face, something downright suspicious. Nonetheless, Mike didn’t call her on it. He heaved a put-upon sigh. “If you insist.”

Clearly, he was right to be suspicious.

“Oh,” she said, her grin turning particularly, stunningly dangerous, “I absolutely do.”

* * *

For someone who was relentlessly competitive in every other aspect of her life—seriously, Mike had witnessed her try to convince Dusty and Salvi that “ejaxis” was a word just for a measly double letter score—Ginny wasn’t making much of an effort to win their bet.

In fact, she seemed to be doing the exact opposite.

“This is a list of everything you can’t do,” she announced waving an old heat map crammed with her atrocious scrawl in his face. Without waiting for so much as an acknowledgment from him, Ginny collapsed into Blip’s recently vacated chair. When Mike made no move to accept his list of prohibitions, she flapped the paper pointedly.

“Can I help you, Baker?” he drawled, as if he hadn’t heard her in the first place. It opened him up to a hearing aid joke or twenty, but it was worth it for the way her nose scrunched up in annoyance.

“These are the superstitions—“

“Habits.”

“—you’re not allowed to follow for the next week,” she finished without skipping a beat. Mike would have to learn that trick someday, but as it currently stood, every time Ginny cut into whatever brilliant point he was making, he couldn’t help but stop and listen. Even when she was wholly and completely wrong.

Reluctantly, Mike took the sheet and began skimming over it. _No gum in your pocket… No plate tap when you step into the box… Eyeblack on for every day game…_

The list went on. Mike could already feel himself beginning to itch; he’d known that he was a creature of habit, but this collection of Ginny was full of things he’d never even realized he did. Nearly seventeen seasons he’d been in the show, and he’d never once thought about the fact that he always put on his left shin guard before the right or that he only ever used the second bike from the end in the cardio suite.

In less than a year, though, Ginny’d noticed. She’d noticed a lot.

Like the fact that he always took a shower between BP and the first pitch. That he liked the blue compression shorts his Under Armour rep sent him better than the gray ones even though they were basically the same. That he had the scouting office on speed dial so last-minute lineup changes never hung him out to dry.

He wasn’t sure everything on Ginny’s list was a product of superstition, but he did know that everything on it was a product of careful, meticulous study.

Ginny knew him. Better than he knew himself, by the looks of things.

It made him wonder what else she knew.

“That’s quite the list,” he finally said once he’d deciphered the last of her chicken scratch. “Too bad you can’t expect me to just up and quit doing all of it.”

“What?” she demanded, loud enough to draw some attention away from the clubhouse-wide Mario Kart tournament. Mike wasn’t sure whether it was comforting or not that most of his teammates shrugged and turned away when they saw it was him and Ginny. Blip frowned the longest, but even he eventually had to go back to defending his and Yoshi’s crown.

“There’s a saying somewhere about old dogs and new—”

“That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

He shrugged like maybe he didn’t. “Either way, you can’t really think I’ll keep track of everything on here. I’d spend so much time trying to remember what I can’t do, I’d never make it on the field.”

Ginny’s lips pursed, and Mike pointedly directed his attention elsewhere. The color—a delicate, shell pink—and size—plush and full and expressive as hell—of Ginny Baker’s mouth was none of his concern. He waited her out.

“Are you forfeiting, then?”

He certainly could. Their usual bet—shelling out for a week’s worth of dinners—really wasn’t much of a price to pay when the odds were already stacked against him, even taking Ginny's nearly bottomless stomach into account. (It wasn’t much of a penalty even when he had a fighting chance; being guaranteed a week’s worth of dinners with Ginny no matter who won wasn’t something he’d ever complain about.) That wasn’t how Mike Lawson played, though. The day he threw in the towel without even trying to level the playing field was the day he died.

“Not a chance, Baker. I’m just saying you’ve got to scale back the terms.”

She thought this over for a moment. “I’ll cut it down to ten.”

“You can have three,” he countered. “You pick the first two, and I get the last.”

“Deal.” Maybe that was too easy. Judging by the pleased grin, Mike had a feeling that was the case. “No gum during games.”

His teeth ground together, but he reluctantly agreed. “What else?”

“You can’t do your plate routine.”

That was low. “What’m I supposed to do when I’m in the box, then? Stand there like an idiot?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. Do a dance? Show us your moves, Lawson.”

It was just his imagination that Ginny’s voice had gone particularly raspy on that last demand. There was no hint on her face that she intended the innuendo let alone even heard it.

“Fine,” he agreed, shaking himself out of the distinctly blue path his mind was wandering down. Instead, he looked down at the list of his habits, laid out in painstaking detail and tried to pick one to give up.

Ginny fidgeted in her seat, rising from her slouch to peer anxiously at him.

Mike wasn’t such a good person that he didn’t thoroughly enjoy Ginny’s undivided attention on him.

Which gave him an idea.

“You know,” he said, studying the pitcher out of the corner of his eye as he leaned forward to trade the piece of paper for a roll of tape to start splinting up his fingers, “there’s one habit of mine that you missed.”

“Oh?” Ginny challenged, her brow furrowing. She really thought she had him all pinned down. To be fair, she did, just not in the way that she was probably thinking.

“Yeah,” he said like the smartass he was. “You.”

* * *

As it turned out, avoiding Ginny wasn’t even the worst part of this whole bet.

Not because every fiber of Mike’s being didn’t desperately miss sitting next to her in the dugout, shit talking the other team or umpires or talking heads, whoever deserved it that day, or running batters in the clubhouse. Every time he’d heard her laugh in the past five days, it’d been from a distance, and he hadn’t been the one to make her do it. Mike hadn’t even allowed himself to call her at the end of the day, to check in on her and her elbow like he'd been doing since Spring Training. Every time he turned around, he was surprised that Ginny wasn't there. 

Clearly, he hadn't been wrong when he’d said that Ginny was one of his habits. In less than a year, she’d become a real fixture in his life, filling up his time before, during, and after games.

No, unfortunately, Mike had other problems to worry about other than his sudden Ginny Baker withdrawal because, as it turned out, she was right about him being a little—just a tiny bit—superstitious.

Without his routine at the plate, that customary adjustment of his gloves and the tilt of helmet before tapping the dish and preparing for the pitch, Mike was struggling to find his rhythm. It felt wrong to just step into the box and wait. His bat hung stiffly over his back shoulder, and his knees kept locking up.

He’d drawn a few walks from pitchers as weirded out by this change as he was, but his batting average had taken a definite hit in the past five days. Mike himself, had not.

Plus, he’d started getting snippy with the team. He’d never liked losing, and the fact that he was pretty much the only one going through a slump. Pretty soon, it wasn’t just Ginny keeping out of his way. Mike doubted that it had anything to do with the cut back to his gum habit, but if his mouth was busy chewing, then it would probably be harder for him to chew out everyone else for getting on his nerves.

It’d certainly give his teeth a break; Mike felt like he’d nearly ground them to nubs trying to ease his frustration. It didn't work, and now his jaw ached all the time.

In just two days, he could be done with this. He could go back to his plate ritual and his pack of gum and sitting as close to Ginny as he could without drawing comment. His batting average would bounce back, and the team would learn to laugh at this interlude.

Most important, he could make up for all the time he’d lost with Ginny.

Two days and two games. He could do this.

Even if it seemed like other people had their doubts. Al had agreed to keep him in the lineup even though Mike’s bat was deader than dead, but he’d given him a long, knowing look before giving in.

Mike had repaid that favor by getting on base on an error and striking out twice, once looking.

Now, he was due up in three batters and was desperately trying to figure out how to avoid doing it for a third time. Mike stalked up and down the dugout, sure that there was at least one camera trained on him and that here was God knew how much speculation going on up in the press box. To say nothing of the rest of the world; his Twitter mentions had been a mess for days. Nonetheless, Mike did nothing to temper the furious frown on his face. The SportsCenter guys could talk about him all they liked, he didn’t care.

Just as Mike turned on his heel to stomp back down the dugout, a convenient corridor carved out among his teammates by his relentless pacing, he was stopped in his tracks.

“Get in here,” came a hissed command, a strong hand on his arm jerking him to the side. He stumbled into the hallway leading back to the clubhouse, barely biting back a curse.

He couldn’t say when he realized it was Ginny towing him into the dim, empty corridor, but he had a feeling he’d always known. If anyone else had tried to drag him out of the dugout in the middle of a game, he would have put up much more of a struggle.

“I’ve gotta get my batting gloves,” he protested, even as his feet carried him along after Ginny.

“They can wait,” she bit out. Even from behind, it was easy to see that she was carrying a lot of tension in her shoulders. Her gait as she towed him to the dim, recessed door of a storage close, away from anyone who might think to check in on them.

“Not if Dom and Omar—“

“They’re bringing in a lefty for Dom,” she said, looking awfully sure of herself. When he raised a brow in question, Ginny shrugged while still managing a smug smirk. “I saw Torson signal for it.”

Bright amusement cut through Mike’s confusion. Chuckling, he asked, “You stealing signs Baker?”

Ginny shrugged while still managing a smug smirk. Rather than give him a straight answer, she said, “You need to get a hit.”

Mike rolled his eyes. He expected this from Al, who’d bumped him down to seventh in the lineup today, and the press, but not from the woman who’d brought this down on him. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Mike,” she said, somehow more serious this time. Ginny even took a step closer to illustrate her point, which certainly didn’t make Mike gulp with her sudden proximity. Wide-eyed, he watched as she reached into her back pocket and pulled out four sticks of his favorite gum. “You _need_ to get a hit.”

“I will,” he groused, crossing his arms over his chest, making no move to take the gum she brandished at him. “Once I’ve won this bet.”

Ginny’s jaw set and her brow wrinkled in frustration. Rather than try to argue with him, though, she settled on direct action. In a flash, she’d leaned forward, reached around him, and started stuffing the Doublemint into his back pocket.

Which, coincidentally, left her hand cupped right around the curve of his ass.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, holding himself utterly still. It was either that or give into the urge to put his hands on her, maybe start with her backside and see where that got him.

She scowled, her hand still in his back pocket, and that was an experience Mike had not once thought to anticipate. He’d hoped that if he ever felt Ginny’s hands on him for more than a celebratory pat, she’d look far more pleased about it. “I can’t watch you strike out again. It’s ruining you for me.”

“You telling me you only like me when I hit bombs?” he teased even as a streak of doubt burned through him. His career as a Padre had a definite expiration date, and while he’d probably always remember the feel of a bat in his hands just as a ball rocketed off the sweet spot, he wouldn’t be able to launch 430-foot homers forever.

Ginny’s hand slid out of his pocket, slow and almost reluctant. He cursed himself for even bringing it up. There was no need to remind her that just as his chapter in the book of baseball history was coming to a close, hers was just beginning.

Still, that disappointment faded just a bit when Ginny didn’t take a step back, didn’t put that distance between them again. It disappeared entirely when she confessed, quiet and utterly sure, “No, I don’t just like you when you’re hitting bombs.” Before Mike could really revel in that little admission, though, her mouth quirked in amusement and she added, “But it really helps.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, Ginny.”

Her eyelashes fluttered and a soft sigh escaped her perfect pink lips. She didn’t even bother to pretend it hadn’t happened, which they’d both done plenty of times in the past. They were good at finding themselves in situations two teammates probably shouldn’t.

Mike wasn’t exactly feeling like Ginny’s teammate now, though.

Indulging himself, he reached out and tucked a stray curl back behind her ear and didn’t pull his hand away when he was done. Ginny’s eyes remained closed, like if she wasn’t looking it wouldn’t count when she leaned her cheek into his palm or when her hand came up to keep it there.

“You know,” he murmured, “I don’t think the gum was the problem.”

All four of her dimples put in an appearance as her lips curved into a grin. She blinked up at him. Even in the dim light, her eyes danced and sparkled. His thumb rubbed over the arch of her cheekbone, drawing up a dark flush.

Then, slow enough that Mike could see it coming from a mile away and still couldn’t quite believe it was, Ginny lifted up onto her toes and brushed a kiss right against the corner of his mouth. Even that brief brush of her lips lit up pyrotechnics in Mike’s very soul. Fuck his habits, if Ginny’d just do that once or twice or for the rest of their lives, he’d be hitting grand slams all day long.

She pulled away, and he felt the fabric of her jersey slide out from under his fingertips. When had he put his hands on her hips? That dazed thought was all he could manage when Ginny looked up at him from under the thick fringe of her eyelashes.

“I didn’t really think it was,” she said, finally stepping away from him and back into the main drag of the hall. Ginny didn’t turn as she went, though, and the embarrassed, but nonetheless ecstatic, smile didn’t drop from her face.

It didn’t drop for the rest of the game.

In fact, it even grew when Mike stepped up to the plate and let loose on the first middle-in strike that came his way, pretty much ripping the leather off the ball and sending it sailing out of the stadium. He couldn’t help but check on her reaction as he trod the base path, and Ginny might not even need to kiss him again. The proud, elated look she shot him from halfway over the dugout fence might be enough to fuel his slugging percentage for weeks.

It might, but it wasn’t as if Mike was about to let himself find out. He wanted—craved, longed for, _needed_ _—_ Ginny to kiss him again. For real this time around.

Luckily, he thought as he rounded third towards home and his favorite person in the world, he had a pretty good feeling that she wouldn’t mind obliging him.

(As it turned out, she really, really didn’t.

Actually, she insisted on it.)


End file.
